


the beginning of time and space

by scheherazade



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-18
Updated: 2011-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-23 05:40:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/246835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scheherazade/pseuds/scheherazade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was never tennis that you fell in love with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the beginning of time and space

On the last day, you wake up before dawn, thinking, _He likes music. I could bring him one of those old record players, and maybe some Beatles._

The idea is a satisfying weight on your mind as you doze off again. When you wake the second time, it's to pale sunlight in the window panes and the Cavalier snuffling around the foot of your bed.

"Morning to you, too, Darcy."

The dog gives you a baleful look when you pat her head. She follows you to the bathroom, paws at the door; you ignore her in favor of a shower and, not for the first time, you wonder why you still bother with pets. It had all been Kim's idea, to start with. Sure, you loved Maggie well enough—and Hudson, and Joy, and the pet parakeet she bought that one time in Mexico—but Kim has long since left, and Darcy's got those perpetually sad eyes that make the house feel all the lonelier for her presence.

It's a cloudless Tuesday morning, cold and grey with last week's snow still melting into the mud. You take Darcy for a walk and slip on a patch of ice. It takes you a few moments to get your wind back, and longer still to get yourself back onto your feet; you're not as young as you used to be.

Rubbing your knee, you check your phone to make sure you haven't broken it. There are two new messages from Sofija:

_Dad is better today. Come get your ass kicked in wii3 whenever u feel ready_

and

_His words not mine._

You can't help the smile that creeps over your lips. _Visiting in the afternoon,_ you type into the phone. _Got a surprise for him, dont tell._

Back home, you wash your hands in warm water and turn on the laptop. Darcy flops at your feet, sneezes, then stares ponderously at the hem of your jeans. There are a couple new emails in your inbox. One is from the new manager of your foundation, asking if you want to do some exhibition matches in Spain next month. For Christmas. Spain makes you think of sun-bright smiles, knuckles bruised and bound with tape. Christmas makes you think of Darcy's black eyes, cold furniture, politely-worded invitations to which you'll respond with even more politely-worded rejections.

You write back to Bradley, _Sure, sounds fine. Let me know when you have more details._ You close that window, open a new one, and search google for "where to buy vinyl records."

The nearest store turns out to be a good two hours away. England's largest collection of vintage music and memorabilia, their website claims. The place sells record players, too. You figure you have the rest of the morning to kill, so why not.

You drive with an old mix CD for company, tapping your fingers on the steering wheel in time with melodies that you've almost forgotten over the years. The streets twist and cross and turn. Just as you're sure you must have made an erroneous left somewhere, you spot a building with a faded old sign above the door: _Welcome to Prince Record Exchange!_

There's a girl behind the counter chewing bubble gum and tapping away on her tablet.

"Let me know if you need any help, sir."

She snaps her gum, barely glances at you as you walk toward the shelves stacked with CDs, DVDs, vinyl records, faded magazines. You spot a glass case in the back. It's full of record players, proudly displayed like some parody of a trophy case that you try not to dwell on, especially on days like this.

The store is empty but for you and a few teenagers listening to CDs in a corner. You stroll through the aisles, blowing the dust off of the records to read their labels. You find a CD by some hip-hop group called The Joker's Autograph.

"You want a cart for that?" the girl asks when you pay at the register. You tell her no, it's fine. You walk back to the car with everything in your arms, the records balanced atop the record player, the CD tucked into your jacket pocket.

Your phone rings just as you turn the key in the ignition. It's Jamie. You put the car in reverse and accept the call.

"Yeah?"

"Good morning to you, too," he laughs. "Did you get my email?"

You remember seeing it in your inbox. "No. What's up?"

"Laura wants you to go to her Christmas party. You've skipped the past two years, and this time she's expressly forbidding you from playing exhibitions, doing talk shows, presenting awards, accepting awards, visiting friends in eastern Europe, or anything of the sort during the week of the 25th."

"I'm playing an exho in Spain. For my foundation."

He gives a sigh that, in your opinion, is far more theatrical than the situation demands. "God, Andy. Why are you so scared of parties?"

“Maybe I just have better things to do." You nearly miss a turn and slam on the brakes just in time. "Look, tell Laura I'm sorry. I'll go for her birthday in January."

He snorts. "Call her yourself. Where are you right now?"

"Driving, so you should probably hang up."

"Going to see Novak?"

"Yeah."

A pause. "How's he doing?"

"Sofi said he's having a good day, so I'm bringing him some music. Thought it'd cheer him up."

"Well, say hi to them for me. And Andy?"

"Yeah?"

"You should tell him," Jamie says, "before. You know. Sooner than later."

You stare at the pale sky above.

"Things are fine right now," you say finally. "He's doing well. I'll talk to you later, Jamie."

You end the call. Tossing the phone onto the passenger seat, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the rear view mirror. You look away. The silence is loud in the absence of your brother's voice.

The roads are wet and grey with wintertime, and your knee is hurting again, a muted kind of pain that might mean rain or simply that you're getting no younger. You ease your foot off the gas for a moment to rub at the ache in your joint.

You're not driving particularly fast when it happens. You have your eyes on the road, one hand firmly on the wheel. It's a blind intersection. The lorry hurtles out of nowhere, fills your windshield—horn blaring, tires screeching—and you slam on the brakes—your phone rings—too late—momentum screaming forward and then—

.

BBC News: British tennis star Andy Murray dies in car accident at age 49.  
12:37 PM Nov. 27 via breakingnews.com

.

—you open your eyes to find yourself lying in bed. No. Not a bed. A beach. The sun is bright, but you can look directly at it without fear, without pain. The sand is soft beneath your palms.

You sit up, and there is ocean for miles and miles and miles, stretching away into eternities, stretching _above_ —as if the world were concave rather than round. You follow it with your eyes until you start to feel dizzy. You unfold yourself from the sand and stand up, slowly.

You're wearing your favorite sweater, but it's ripped and tattered and bloody in patches. Your jeans aren't in much better condition. Your shoes look as if they've been through a firestorm and then worse. Cautiously, you touch your own face. Your skin feels whole. You don't remember being in pain.

You kick off your shoes, peel off the sweater and then your socks. The water laps against your feet. You can see a smudge of trees in the distance.

You walk, at first; then, you run. Your knee is strong. You run until you're breathless and boneless and stumble, planting your hands in receding waves as you swallow deep salt-sweet breaths. You roll onto your back. The sun hasn't moved; it dims slowly, like a lamp set high in the curving dome of the world. You smile as you close your eyes.

You don't hear the footsteps, the whispering laughter of a voice until someone says,

"Andy."

Your eyes fly open. You stare into the face looking down at you, and after a heartbeat, you answer, "Novak."

He smiles and takes you by the hand, helping you to your feet.

"What are you doing here?" you wonder.

"Well, last I heard, you're dead. So I must be, too." He shrugs. The light material of his hospital gown rustles. "Not so bad, is it? I like beaches."

"But you were getting better. You came to London because the doctors said they could. I thought."

He shakes his head. "I was dying, Andy. Things happen. But it's over now."

You take in the set of his smiling face, the color in his cheeks, so different from when you saw him last. There's a faint shadow of fuzz covering his scalp; Novak's hair has always grown back quickly.

You reach for his hand, unthinking. He lets you.

"The car accident," you say. "I was coming to see you. I bought one of those old record players. I thought it might cheer you up, since you always liked weird things."

He laughs and pulls you closer. "So that's why you always cheered me up the most. You're more strange than everything."

You roll your eyes at him. “Thanks. Don't know why I put up with you, either.”

"No, that's easy," he says, resting his hand against your cheek. "Because I love you."

His hand is warm, his eyes painfully sincere. You open your mouth to brush it off, find the punchline—but instead you hear yourself say,

"I know."

And it's true, you think as he kisses you. His lips are unfamiliar, rough, but the arm around your shoulders is nothing new, the warmth of his body is like coming home, and you know—you _know_.

"Well," he says afterwards, grinning, "I've been dying to do that my whole life."

It takes you a second to get the joke. Then you shove him, and he just laughs, so you shove him harder, hard enough to make him stumble. When he pulls you down with him, you don't resist.

.

You walk with him, hand in hand, bare feet pressing into the sand. Evening falls, but the darkness is light with stars, and waves break endlessly against the shore. His fingers curl around your wrist. He touches your lips with his, breathes into you. You walk on.

You're not sure where you're going, but when you see the white sail marking the space where sea meets sand, you know. The man sitting on the beach looks up when you approach.

"Hey," he says. "I've been waiting for you. I'm Charlie."

Novak doesn't let go of your hand. "What are you doing here?"

"Just here to let you know what's going on." Charlie's smile is crooked, but he's got a kind face, and you trust him. "A girl showed up to tell me what was going on, too, when I died. I expect you'll do the same for someone in time."

"So what's the deal?" Novak gestures to the beach, the star-studded skies. "We made it, and now we get to camp out here for eternity?"

"No," Charlie replies, "only for as long as you were alive. We live here until we've run down the clocks, you see, kind of like on the other side. Except in the other direction. You age backwards, but you won't forget things you've learned. You get to really understand."

"Will we meet anyone else?" you ask. "Other people we know?"

"Probably not." Charlie looks over his shoulder at the boat tilted against the sand. There's a slim figure sitting in its shadow, a silhouette against a darker blue. "You live this life with the person that you need. Whoever you need to help you understand."

"Who are you here with?"

"Tess," says Charlie, smiling. "We're sailing the world a second time, so we're leaving soon. I stopped here to talk to you."

"But what are we supposed to learn here?" Novak wants to know.

Charlie stands up and brushes sand from his pants. "That's for you to find out."

With another smile, he turns and sprints back to the boat.

You stand there, watching, as the vessel disappears out to sea, and two silhouettes blend into one beneath the wind-filled sail. Novak reaches for your hand. The sky is dark with spaces between the stars.

.

"There's a house up there," Novak says the next day. He points to a glimmer of color at the edge of the trees. A faint path littered with pebbles marks the way, leading you up to a little chalet with a cream colored door, the unpainted wood of its sides worn dark and smooth. Sunlight catches like gold in the bay windows as Novak pushes the front door open.

You grab his hand, "Wait. What are you doing?"

He just smiles at you, tugs you inside. "It's okay," he says. "This is ours. It's our house."

As soon as the door closes behind you, an unfamiliar feeling of welcome creeps over your skin. Novak steers you past the staircase to the living room. The furniture is all upholstered in warm, soft colors, and there are empty picture frames lying on every available surface.

"This isn't my house," you tell him. "It's not your place either."

"No," he agrees. "It's _ours_."

Opposite the fireplace, a set of glass doors look out into the backyard. The curtains have been pulled aside, and you can see a tennis court nestled between flowering gardens and winding pebble paths.

"You recognize this, don't you?" Novak asks as you walk upstairs.

You do, though you don't. It's like a dream so real that it's no longer possible to tell what part is only in your imagination. You wonder how you can know so intimately something that you never lived.

"It's our house," you reply, and he follows you into the bedroom on the right.

The closet is hung with your clothes, his shoes lined up neatly on the floor. In the dresser drawers, your t-shirts are folded with his. He pulls on a shirt and sweatpants. You try not to watch, but he catches you anyway. He laughs, tosses the hospital gown in your general direction.

"It's okay, you know," he says. His arms wind around your waist. "It's okay now."

You kiss his smiling mouth as he pulls you closer, resting your hand at the nape of his neck. He shivers when your thumb traces the shell of his ear, and his teeth graze your bottom lip.

It's been two days here in this heaven or hell. You've had nothing to eat or drink, slept only a little, out on the beach under the stars—and he observed quickly enough that that you don't need that here. Gone are all your animal instincts, all stripped away.

All but this last desperate need for _him_ , his body flush against yours, arms clinging like ivy. Still, you want him closer. It's where he belongs—where you belong—and nothing can ever strip this from who you are.

.

You fall asleep beside him, lulled by the rhythm of his breathing.

You dream of your mum wearing black. She looks so thin, so suddenly frail. Jamie helps her out of the car, and Alejandra takes her other arm as they walk into the church together. There isn't a single flash of a camera, no sound at all beyond the tires crunching over gravel and a wind whispering to the clouds.

In the next dream you see Kim making lunch for her family. Then it's Dani humming an old tune under his breath, wintry sunlight washing the streets of Barcelona. Then Darcy huddled under Jamie's kitchen table, whimpering, her eyes dark and sad.

You wake up with Novak's arm curled around your waist.

The picture frames are no longer empty when you go downstairs. You look closer and see that they're filled with scenes from your dreams. Not all of them are yours, however. There are photos of Novak's brothers, his mother, his family's old restaurant in Belgrade.

Novak's feet are soft against the floor.

“Is this real?” you ask him. “Are they. Are we actually seeing them?”

“I don't know,” he says, “but it feels real. Like how you knew Charlie was telling the truth, and I knew about the house.”

You pick up a circular frame with a photo of Jelena. Sofija is at her side, holding tightly to her mother's hand.

 _Do you love her?_ you don't ask.

The photograph of Kim is sitting above the fireplace. Novak says nothing as you gaze at it, studying her face and wondering what exactly you're supposed to feel. You lay the picture frame face down on the mantel, remembering how she once accused you of loving tennis more than you loved her.

She refused to believe you when you tried to explain that she was wrong, it wasn't true. It was never tennis that you fell in love with.

.

The court behind the house is surfaced with blue clay. Novak finds a tennis bag in the upstairs study, and sometimes, you play. The racquet feels almost weightless in your hand. He still takes forever to set up a serve, and when you make fun of him for it, he retaliates with his best impression of you berating yourself on court.

“Bastard,” you laugh, hitting a stray tennis ball over onto his side of the court. “That is _not_. First of all, I don't cry in the middle of a match!”

He kicks the tennis ball out of his way. “You will before I'm done with you!”

He's as brilliant as you remember, but you haven't forgotten how to play tennis, either. You can still read his serve, and you know you can still defend like nobody's business. Your knee feels strong. There are no matches to string together, no elusive trophies and no dogged press. _You_ feel strong.

He likes walking down to the beach afterwards. You wade in the water and dry your feet on the sand. Together, you watch the sunlight dim over the sea, waves rolling in and his arm around your shoulders.

“What if,” he asks one day. “If we go back, and it's like before. Would you still pick tennis?”

“You don't know it's going to be like that.”

“But if. Would you?”

“Would _you_?”

He's quiet for a moment. “If it means finding you again, then yes.”

You watch the way the waves roll up to your feet, only to fall back again before ever touching the tip of your toes. When it drains away, the water takes with it the footprints in the sand.

“I'd find you anyway,” you say eventually, “even if there's no tennis. You'd be that annoying kid in my class who's popular with all the girls and who probably used to pick on me in gym.”

He laughs. “I wouldn't do that. Then you won't like me.”

“You were a brat when I met you back then, and I still liked you. Still do.”

“You just can't make things easy for yourself, can you?”

There's a strange little smile on his face. You shrug.

“Life's not supposed to be easy.”

“No,” he agrees. “Probably not.”

.

There are no calendars in the house. No watches, no clocks, no way of keeping track of time beyond the transitions of light and dark in the sky. It bothers you for a while, at first; you make a point of counting the days in your head, but quantifying matters less and less as time draws on, and hours—weeks—months dissolve into interchangeable eternities.

The wrinkles on Novak's forehead begin to fade. Your hair grows dark again.

You sleep because it's comforting to wake up beside him, his weight a solid counterpoint to your dreams. The pale scenes of grief slowly give way to ordinary things: leaves on the ground, new winter coats; Jamie planning a surprise party for your mum's birthday; Sofi meeting her husband-to-be.

The picture frames fill with images of families. Life goes on.

.

The day he comes back from a walk bearing a load of firewood in his arms—for the fireplace, he says, beaming at the nonplussed look on your face—you can't help but remember.

After Kim left you—the second time, this time for good—he invited you to go skiing with him. A week in the Swiss Alps, just the two of you. “Take your mind off things,” in his words. “You need a break, and I am good company, no?”

He took you to a resort situated high in the snow-capped peaks. The place was well-run, discreet, and you had a little chalet all to yourselves. He taught you how to snowboard. Between shouts of encouragement and too many falls to admit, you remember his smiling face. In the evenings, he helped you build up the fire while darkness dampened the window panes.

He hugged you when he could, and even when he couldn't, he still found a way to remain fastened to your side: a hand on your shoulder, his fingers lightly brushing your wrist. It was his way of telling you, _Don't be lonely. I am here. Smile for me_.

Sometimes, it seemed like he was trying to tell you more.

You remember that you were toasting marshmallows by the fire, that evening. The original plan had been to dip them in chocolate, but he'd forgotten to buy said chocolate, so he came up with a different way to blacken the marshmallows instead.

Or rather, _you_ were blackening them. He laughed when your marshmallow caught on fire—the second one in a row—and by the time you blew out the puff of flame, all you had left was an unappetizing lump of charred sugar. He snatched your stick away and skewered a new marshmallow.

“A six-year-old girl is better than you are. Here.” He wrapped his hand around yours, turning the stick slowly over the fire. “You have to be patient for it to be perfect.”

It still came out a little burnt on one side. You nibbled at a corner. Sugary goo melted over your tongue, and you made an involuntary face. He grinned at your grimace—leaned in and ate the rest of the marshmallow off your stick. His eyes crinkled with humor. He didn't let go of your hand.

You curled your fingers around his, pulling him closer. He'd always been the patient one, you knew: a lover of detail, willing to observe, live in waiting and in hope. He enjoys dreams and wishes and happy-ending books, but you—you've never been the kind to wait, not when you know you have a decent shot at succeeding. What's the worst that could happen? You were used to losing by now.

Still, your heart thumped against your ribs when you lifted his hand to your lips and brushed a kiss over his knuckles. You could feel the callouses on his hands, memories won from a life bound by white lines and racquet strings. His eyes were unreadable in the firelight.

You were used to losing, once upon a time, because you were used to going after what you wanted.

Now he pulled his hand away. He stood up with a slow, deliberate grace.

“Sorry,” he said, hands disappearing in the pockets of his jeans. His foot bumped against the bag of marshmallows as he took a step back. “Shouldn't have. Have the rest, if you want. Think I'll go to bed a bit early today.”

He left you by the fireside. You stayed there until the last log had burned to ash. Then you turned off the lights in the hall and slipped upstairs to your bed. You didn't sleep well that night, but the next morning he was up at the crack of dawn, making breakfast. You walked into the kitchen to the smell of toasted bread and ham.

He greeted you with a dazzling smile. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” you answered, automatic.

You never brought it up, after that. The fireplace remained cold for the rest of your stay. When you got back to London, you adopted a skinny little terrier in need of a home, and as the years went on, the sound of clicking paws filled the spaces left by fire and sweetness melted away.

.

“Why'd you leave?” you ask him. “That time in Switzerland. We never even talked about it.”

The fire crackles on the logs. He's quiet, curled up beside you on the couch, a blanket on his lap and his head resting against your shoulder.

“What's this about?” he says eventually.

“We never talked about it.”

“You didn't want to.”

“You didn't even give me a chance. I just want to know why.”

He sits up. “You know why. It's how it was.”

“We could've been different.”

“No,” he says, picking at the blanket. “You can't have everything. Even. Especially for us. It would have been so sad, choosing that life. And I didn't want to be sad. I can't live like that.”

You stand up before he finishes the sentence. “So you chose lying. That’s how you wanted to live?”

“Never.” He catches your hand. The blanket pools around his feet as he rises. “Never,” he repeats, and there’s a fierce conviction in his voice. “Maybe it wasn’t the life you wanted, but I never lied about anything. That life—it was real.”

You stare at him. He holds your gaze, steady.

You tug your hand from his grasp. He watches you turn away. At the door you slip on a pair of sandals and step out into the night. His footsteps trail behind you.

“Andy.” He doesn’t chase after you, only his voice: “Andy. Wait.”

.

The beach is silver-blue in the night. You sit with your knees pulled against your chest, your toes brushing the edge of each foam-laced wave. A train whistles in the distance.

You look up at the sound of footsteps, expecting Novak—instead you see a girl. She’s holding her little brother by the hand. James, you think. Phillipa and James. You recognize her long red hair and the way he eyes you with suspicion, though you know you’ve never met them before.

“Hey.” You stand up, then crouch down again so you’re at eye level with them. “Hey. I’ve been waiting for you. You guys alright? I'm Andy, by the way.”

“We don't know anyone named Andy,” James mutters. “What is this place?”

“We’re dead, aren’t we?” Phillipa says in a way that suggests she already knows everything you’re going to say.

“Yeah.” You try to remember all the things Charlie told you. “But you’re here for a reason. To learn something, until you go back again. It’s not so bad here.”

Phillipa shakes her head. “Not here. We’re supposed to go somewhere else. We have tickets, see?” She holds up two slips of paper.

All three of you look up when the train whistle sounds again, long and mournful and slow. James scuffs at the sand with his feet.

“Will we see mom again?” he asks. “Will the train take us to her?”

Phillipa looks to you expectantly. The waves roll up to shore.

“It’ll take you somewhere you need to go,” you tell them, “wherever that is. I can't tell you where, because that's for you to find out. But you’ll be fine, yeah? You’ll be together.”

James nods. Phillipa tightens her hold on her brother’s hand. Your fingers curl empty around your own palm. You know that this is not how it was supposed to be. This is not how it was. You watch Phillipa tuck the train tickets into her pocket, and you know.

They walk off together, two sets of footprints disappearing in the slowly shifting sand. You stand at the water’s edge, watching. The sound of the train whistle fades as the night grows darker.

When it gets too cold, you walk back to the house and find the front door open. Novak is a silhouette against the yellow light spilling out into the dark. He draws you in from the cold, and you fold yourself into his arms.

.

"I'll find you again, right?" you whisper, lips pressed to his ear. "When we go back, and then here again, or wherever. I'll find you."

He sighs against your neck—his breath, your pulse—heart fluttering in his warmth.

"You won't even have to look," he says. "I'll be right there."

.

You find a record player in the attic. It's old and dusty with disuse, but you bring it downstairs anyway, along with the vinyl records stacked on top of it. Novak cleans it up, flips through the records for upbeat songs, and pretends to DJ from the kitchen counter.

Other times, he plays something softer, mellow, with a good violin part. Then he takes you by the hand, smiling, and you dance with him.

His head rests against your shoulder as a sweet melody fills the house.

“Were you happy?” he asks. “Back then. Were you, in the end?”

You remember Jamie asking you the same, years ago. You remember telling him, as long as you had people who care about you—someone who loves you—you were fine. You were great. Failures, hopes, expectations: none of that mattered anymore. What you had was enough.

It wasn't a complete lie, because it _would_ have been enough. Novak would have been more than enough, if only you could have had him.

But you did have him. Not as you would've liked, perhaps, but you've always had him, in the same way you had life and memory and love: in your blood, in your heart. You know that now.

So you press a kiss to his forehead, hold him a little tighter.

 _Yes_ , you tell him. Yes.

.

You grow young together.

You learn to see things differently as maturity melts into time. The world is brighter, its objects more luminous. You shed sorrows for hope, fear for desire and more. Falling in love is just as it was—stranger, perhaps, but no less true.

You re-learn the rawness of him as time rolls you back. He's beautiful, in youth, poised before perfection: the curve of his spine, his strength, the way his skin glistens with sweat after two sets of tennis under a midday sun. You want him, all of him. He is everything.

All the world is bursting with life. You return to childhood together, careless and happier than free. You skin your knees chasing him through the sand, following his laughter through the woods and the vibrant days.

You grow small, and the house expands. Space is endless. So is time. You lie curled against him, swaddled in cloth, sunlight and warmth and the slow curling of his fingers in your palm—and you know. You know.

This is how it was, and exactly how this was supposed to be.

**Author's Note:**

> The basic premise for this fic was borrowed (loosely) from [_Elsewhere_ by Gabrielle Zevin](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Elsewhere_\(novel\)). Charlie and Tess are characters from [Charlie St. Cloud (2010)](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Charlie_St._Cloud_\(film\)). Phillipa and James are from [Inception (2010)](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inception_\(film\)). Originally written for the inaugural edition of [netcord](http://chair-umpire.livejournal.com/633.html).


End file.
